


Falls Apart

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Asexual Character, Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Power Play, Size Kink, Xeno, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave knows carapaces are asexual. Droog knows Dave's craving him. There has to be a way to compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ... Sorry. I really couldn't choose whether to write this with Dave or Aradia, so you get both. Actually not sorry, as it was fun either way.

He came to you because he had nowhere else to go.

Dave was always largely independent by nature, so during the first few months of his tenancy, he had a tendency to pad around on silent feet, disappearing around a corner as soon as you saw him out of the corner of your eye, avoiding contact with you whenever possible. It was like owning a cat for that first adjustment period: he came out to eat and drink, and other than that, you hardly saw him. And that was just fine with both of you.

But it’s not as if he doesn’t want to be here. You remind him of his brother, he told you—and what remained unsaid was that he still needs someone, some guidance, even if your presence in his life is only fleeting. And so, eventually, the two of you have learned how to live with one another. Silently abiding, largely keeping to yourselves, more like family, but there are still oddities to your relationships with each other. It’s difficult learning to live with a different species entirely, these fleshy soft humans frustrating you to no end.

Dave is different, though. There’s a hard set to his mouth, a hard glint in his shades, a resiliency in the posture of his shoulders, a hunch in his spine as if he carries a weight on the back of his neck. His slim form is nothing but hard angles: hipbones, cheekbones, collarbones, elbows, knees, jaw. When he creates, his music is obscene and loud, the sound from his video clips echoing through the place. He seems to have no shame, given that you can easily hear him masturbating no matter the time of day. His hands are finely articulated, and he is a marvel with a blade; several times you’ve caught him in the act of polishing swords you’ve never seen him use, caressing the metal like he might a lover.

Something almost indescribable changes when Dave starts to bring in money of his own. It starts changing from a penthouse that you own and allow Dave to stay in and morphing into a place that is just as much his as it is yours. He starts borrowing your suits to go to premieres, and while you would ordinarily tell him no, he cuts a fine figure in your clothing; he always has them dry-cleaned before he returns them, using the place you prefer though you’re sure you’ve never explicitly told him which one. You prefer tea, but you find yourself making coffee at all hours, receiving nothing from Dave but a small up-nod of recognition when he’s drawn out of his room with the smell and refills his “World’s Best Dad” mug.

Instead of hiding in his room, he now brings his laptop out to the kitchen, sitting at the marble breakfast counter with Hello Kitty stereo headphones wrapping around his head while he stares, brows furrowed, at his screen. He’s managed to ask you a few utterly lewd and obscene questions in the last few weeks, like why he never hears you masturbating and how carapaces are meant to copulate. Carapaces, you’ve explained to him painstakingly slowly, are a strange breed. You still bear the barcode on your wrist that came from the cloning process; excepting the Queen, no carapace reproduces sexually now. Your instinctual drive is not towards fornication but instead self-preservation.

The casual air around the penthouse leads Dave to lounge around in nothing but sweats drooping off his slim hips, and since your body by itself is unadorned, you take to not wearing clothes in order to preserve their integrity. Dave, of course, catches you disrobed more than once, and you were sure his eyebrows were trying to migrate into his hairline the first time he saw you, slapping a hand over his mouth and doing an abrupt about-face while he flushed red from the tips of his ears to the tops of his shoulders. You hadn’t realized that your physiology was behaving in a way that he might have interpreted as sexual, let alone functional. While reproduction might be bred out of your species, the physicality remains unchanged, and so you have been left with an appendage that’s nothing short of useless.

Ever since that day, though, Dave’s acted differently around you. You understand why, but at first, you were content to let him process the incident on his own time, on his own terms. Lately, however, he’s seemed distracted. He’s uncharacteristically missed a few deadlines from his production companies, and he mostly confines himself to his room now. If you thought he masturbated excessively before, that rate is nothing compared with how often he does now.

You wait, and you wait. This impatience is highly unusual for you, but Dave is on edge, his tension filling the air in the penthouse you share until you can nearly taste it. You’re sure that soon he’s going to approach you and confront you about what he saw, but you’ve never considered how you would react—until tonight. Tonight, when he wanders into your bedroom, shirtless with low-slung red leather pants clinging to his hips and legs. Tonight, when you can see his pale eyelashes quivering just behind his shades. Tonight, when he can’t stop biting his lips, leaving them flushed and swollen and glossy. Tonight, when the scent of Earl Grey and leather clings to his skin. He brazenly approaches you and stops in front of you, not bothering to get down on your level but instead looming over you as best he can. “Droog.”

“Sir,” you correct him.

Dave sighs, his eyebrows coming together the slightest bit. His adam’s apple works in a swallow. He has to tilt his chin down to look into your eyes, but his shades still shield him from the intensity of your glare. “Sir,” he says, and you wonder that it only comes out half-sarcastically. “Goddamn, I don’t even know how to fucking word this, I can’t shut up at the best of times and now I don’t know what to say.”

“Use your words, boy.”

That quiets his rambling. He swallows again, runs his tongue over his lips. “Please,” and the word has the weight of a prayer. He has your attention. “Sir, you let me live here, you put up with my shit, you make me coffee—you let me borrow your fucking clothes. I know, I know, you’re all ‘carapaces don’t do that, back the fuck out of my face,’ but please, just.” His voice cracks. He bites his lip for a fraction of a second while he looks for the rest of his sentence. “You gotta like me, at least a little bit, or you woulda thrown me out on my ass within days of me staying with you. I just wanna show you how much it means to me.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“You gotta understand, it’s not like this is just comin’ outta nowhere,” he blurts out, practically interrupting you. “But I have to—I need to.”

“Use your words,” you repeat.

“Please, sir…” Those words sound so good coming from his mouth. “Fuck me.”

Although that had to be the logical conclusion of his statements, it still takes you somewhat by surprise. “What brought this on?”

“Sir,” and this time it’s entirely sarcastic, a sardonic smile twisting Dave’s mouth, “I’ve seen you naked. What the fuck did you think I’d want?”

“Strider.” He falls silent. “This is about my shaft.” You say it straightforwardly, but there’s malice curling under your tone.

He knows he has to speak, and this time, the words come tumbling out of his mouth, seemingly out of his control. “Please, I need it, I can’t stop fucking thinking about it, I’m distracted and I can’t focus and I just want it so bad and I need to know how it feels, how it even—you gotta understand, I’ve been with my fair share of dudes and I had no idea they made them that huge, I can’t let that shit go to waste, I need—“

“Stop.” Though he has to bite his tongue to do so, he shuts up immediately. So he can be taught. “You may.”

Something like a moan wells deep in his chest. “Thank you, sir.”

“I wasn’t finished,” you cut across him, and once again he ceases immediately. “Bring my Djarums from the living room, as well as the newspaper they’re resting on—the Leisure section, if you would. When you return, you will do as I say or this privilege will be taken from you. Understood?”

He nods down at you curtly, and once you blink he’s gone. One of these days, he’ll have to teach you how he does that—it would be an incredibly useful skill. His absence gives you a moment to collect yourself. The closest you come to disrobing is loosening your tie. He will have to put a great deal of effort into pleasing you. Strangely, as much as you have no sexual urges, using the power of your voice to undo him is utterly appealing to you. He takes direction well, he’s aesthetically pleasing, and he’s eager to please and greedy for attention—greedy for you.

When he returns, he presents the items to you wordlessly, mouth set in a hard line. “Good,” you tell him, taking them from his hands; your fingers brush, and you can feel the tremor lingering under his pale skin. He waits as you light a cigarette, as you lean back on the bed with your back against the headboard. His eyes rake your form, and you can feel under his gaze the sheer force of his primal urges. “Strip.”

“Oh, come on—“

“Do as you’re told.” The ‘or-what’ at the end of that sentence is the threat of taking this away from him, not giving him what he craves and leaving him with that impossible tension, winding him tighter until he snaps.

He bites his lip to keep a retort at bay, but he follows directions. Slowly, to make sure you’re watching his every move, he slides his hands down his taut stomach, framing the trail of hair leading down into his pants. When he unbuttons and unzips, you’re sure that the moan he lets out isn’t entirely planned. You watch, fascinated, as his palms run along his thighs, down his calves, and he manages to step gracefully out of the leather. Dave may be nude, but he’s not bare. It’s not just the slight dignity he still has left, clinging to his frame and forcing his spine rigid. There’s no attempt to shield himself from your view, and you can see the expanse of his pale skin laid out before you.

The malleability of human skin will never cease to fascinate you. Dave is pierced and tattooed, some in places you didn’t think possible. His earlobes are slightly gauged, the shell of his right ear bearing an industrial; the only other piercing near his face is the barbell that goes through his tongue. His nipples, though, are pierced, and now that he’s nude, you can see that the same hedonic masochism extends to his shaft: he’s dripping hard, showcasing a Prince Albert and three rungs of a frenum ladder. Across his back, you know, is a piece made of red gears, almost as if there’s clockwork under his skin. His chest bears a long sword, the hilt at the crux of his collarbones, the point ending just below his navel. On his hips are a pair of wings you hadn’t yet had the chance to view unobstructed.

What concerns you at the moment, though, is his last adornment. “The shades.”

“Aw hell naw,” comes out of his mouth before he seems to think better of it. You can almost see a grudge start to seep into his muscles, but he does even this for you. He takes off the aviators and lays them on your nightstand, yes, but he keeps his eyes deliberately closed.

How he can think to perform the tasks he desires without his sight is beyond you. “Your eyes,” you say pointedly.

“Look…” he starts to say, but then a little frustrated huff flares his nostrils. “Fine.” He opens his eyes, and what you can see is stunning: red irises, pupils blown with lust, white eyelashes softly fluttering. “Happy?”

“Better.” He still stands there obstinately. “Come here.” Dave comes to the foot of the bed, but no closer. “On the bed.” He’s finally understanding that he only has the permissions you grant him, that you’re to be the narrator of this experience and he’s only here at your whim. Or perhaps he’s still being surly, because he refuses to do anything until you say more. You take a drag of your cigarette, exhale your smoke into his face, and he doesn’t so much as blink, only stares at you with unrestrained lust. “I will give you permission to remove my clothing, with one caveat.”

“Oh, what in the fresh hell,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Sir,” he belatedly tacks on.

“You will care for them as I do. Take them, fold them, leave them on the armchair, and so help me, if I find a single wrinkle, I will use your own blade to draw your blood. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Though otherwise he seems so sure of himself, his hands tremble when he brings them up. He doesn’t seem to know where to start, but then he reaches for the loop of your tie to pull himself to you. A soft sound escapes him when he finally crushes his body to yours, the heat of it seeping through shirt and shell to sear you. He draws off the silk noose, running his teeth along the shell of your neck; the sheer inadequacy of his threat of a bite is almost enough to make you snort out a chuckle. He wraps the silk around his hands before moving on to worship every button of your shirt, biting and sucking his way down the shell of your chest as more and more of it is revealed. His utter devotion pleases you.

Dave rakes his nails over all of your plating, sweeping his palms down your arms before he deftly undoes your cufflinks to finish removing your shirt. He doesn’t have to ask, merely puts the cufflinks on the nightstand next to his shades, and when he bends you can see the curve of his rear and the hint of his hole and his perfect raphe, looking like nothing less than a pornographic centerfold.

He leaves the bed, folds your clothes with his back to you so you can see his muscles working under the elaborate red-and-black of his tattoo, then all too soon he’s crawling up your body again to work on your trousers. You’re tempted to tell him to leave the belt on the bed—there are so many things you could do with it, using it as collar and leash in one to keep Dave in line, folding it over in your hand to create a striking implement—but he rolls the leather in on itself and sets it on the nightstand, too. Deft fingers undo the catch of your trousers, and just as he did with himself, he gets the heat of his palms against your plating as he draws the fabric down from your hips, over your thighs, eventually off. His hands linger around the split of your legs, but you can tell he’s trying to hold back, not to be such an obvious slut for you until you’ve explicitly allowed him access.

Once he leaves and folds these, too, he hesitates before she crawls back onto your bed—waiting for directions. Good. You will train him eventually. “Between my legs.” He moves there, looking up at you with nothing less than a predatory smile on his face. So help you, you will obliterate that smug expression. “Give me your hands.” He puts up at least some token resistance to blindly following orders, but then he sits back on his ankles and threads his fingers with yours; you take his palms and plant them on the mattress on either side of your waist, forcing him to bend over. His face is practically at your groin now, the heat of his breath warming your plating. “Higher,” is your last indicator on his posture, and he arches his back even more profoundly, putting his rear even higher in the air. It somewhat disturbs you how adept he is at contorting himself like this. “Arouse me.”

Confusion twists his features. He makes a move to take back one of his hands, but you close your fingers in an unyielding cuff around his wrist. And yet he still looks up to you, almost ready to say something else incredibly sarcastic but instead holding it back by letting his mouth fall open in needy pants. His pretty pink tongue is nearly lolling out of its own accord; you take the barbell of his piercing between your thumb and forefinger and draw his mouth down.

Of course you’re not aroused yet, so you can somewhat understand Dave’s confusion. Under normal circumstances, your genitalia merely acts as the plating for the space between your legs, the seam between organ and body almost indistinguishable. But as he starts to use his tongue to slick you with his spittle, the bead of his piercing outlining the edges of your plating, he starts to realize what’s happening. He sighs as he starts to see what he remembers. With every eager lap at your shell, the flesh beneath swells that little bit more until you start to stand erect.

Dave doesn’t stop there, though. The point of his tongue traces every crevice between your plating, the unyielding metal providing much-needed pressure, only getting you more aroused. Because of the sensitive nature of the general area and the need for flexibility for the torque of your waist, your plating overlaps every half-inch or so, meaning that when the organ beneath swells, there is a ridge of carapace shell for every inch or so of your length. And Dave worships it. He sucks insistent kisses into the sides of your shaft, even nuzzling his face against it, but he can’t stop there. “Suck,” you tell him. Your tone remains unchanged: dead and demanding.

It’s almost as if he was waiting for you to say that. His mouth sinks over the tip of your shaft, and you can feel the satisfied moan as it ripples out of his throat and through your flesh. His beautiful eyes look up at you as he hollows his cheeks and suctions as hard as he can with his mouth, and a low growl starts somewhere in your chest as you hold back from bucking up. Not necessarily to get more sensation—to exercise your dominance by pushing into his throat. You want to take everything he’s offering to you, but if you did that now, you’re reasonably certain you would cause permanent damage. Not all bodies are as resilient as yours.

You settle for running your fingers through Dave’s hair. Hair itself has always fascinated you, as you have none yourself, and so it only makes sense for you to touch his now. Your fingers work as a comb, the baby-fine white strands curling around your black fingers in stark contrast as his hair slides through your grasp with a silky fluidity. With one hand, you tug at the hair on the base of ins neck; with the other, you loop a fingertip into his industrial. The noise he makes, the way he lets his mouth go slack and his eyes roll back in his head as he moans, leaves it unmistakable—he loves it, loves the feel of you controlling his movements by the things that differentiate his species from yours.

“Harder,” you insist, and Dave adds as much pressure as he can from the inside of his mouth. It’s not the speed you’re concerned about so much as testing his devotion, how much difficulty he’s willing to endure in order to claim his reward. You can see your shaft pulsing against his lips stretched around you, and every time, he lets out a soft, needy sound. It almost makes you wish for the enhanced sensitivity most species have in their genitalia, if only so you could feel exactly what it is he’s trying to do to you. As it is, it feels more like he’s merely sucking on your finger, and you can only truly feel it when he goes above and beyond, to a point you’re sure he thinks of as hurting you. Resiliency has its drawbacks.

Eventually, though, he starts to breathe too hard through his nose, and the pursed ring of his lips starts to get sloppy. “Stop,” you tell him, letting go of his head, and he draws off immediately, his chest heaving for breath; a string of spittle still obscenely connects his lips to your plating. You stub your cigarette out in the ashtray of the nightstand—his skin looks so appealing, though—and light another; when you look down to him again, he’s still eyeing your cock almost reverently. “Well?” you ask him. The implication is ‘what are you waiting for?’

He understands what you meant. You take in a drag of your Djarum while he moves up your body, gripping your shoulders with white knuckles and threatening to crush your plating while his knees come up to frame your hips. He pushes down with his hips to rut against you, and he makes a wondrous sound around biting his lips, his eyes involuntarily closing. Eventually, when he can’t seem to stand his own teasing, he holds himself up, positioning you with one hand circling around your shaft as best he can, and he braces himself for penetration, slowly sinking down.

You’re interested to see how this turns out. You watch him intensely, thoroughly enjoying your cigarette as he tries to take you in. As you thought might happen, his body gives up on him when only two of your ridges have disappeared into him; he makes a frustrated noise, but nothing else happens. He’s already spread so wide with your girth, and there’s so much more of your length to take. “I can’t,” he grits out, and you can hear the cringe in his tone.

“Off,” you tell him, waving your hand in an impatient shooing motion. Dave winces when he pulls off, letting out a small huff of relief once the stress to his system is gone, but his spine is hunched in defeat. “What did you do wrong?” He doesn’t answer you. You’re tempted to slap him around a little, but he seems to understand that what he did was unacceptable, and there’s no need for corporal punishment when you’ve already touched his mind so profoundly. “Answer my question.”

“I don’t know,” he mutters.

“Sir.”

“I don’t fucking know, sir,” Dave says, louder this time. “I fucking—used an enema, wore a plug, fucked myself open for days, that thing is monstrous, how am I supposed to take a fucking weapon of mass destruction?”

“Look at me.” You want him to be able to take in the utterly blank expression on your face. You refuse to gratify him with even disdain—he has no rights to read your emotions now, when he’s made such a grave error. “Prepare yourself.”

An embarrassed flush spreads across his face, and even the tips of his ears turn red. “What?”

You refuse to repeat yourself. “Did I stutter?” you ask casually, ashing your cigarette.

“No. … Sir.”

Still, he seems reluctant to start without explicit instructions from you as to how to go about doing that. “Back where you were.” Once again, he takes that position so naturally and gracefully; it’s almost as if he were made to do this for you. One of his hands you keep next to your waist, but the other you allow to go free. With your own free hand, you reach into the nightstand, draw out some of the oil you use to cleanse yourself instead of water, and leave it on the mattress. “Finger yourself—and suck.”

Dave sets to with unprecedented enthusiasm. With his free hand, he expertly pops the cap, dripping copious amounts of lubrication onto his fingers before he reaches behind himself, and once he breaches himself you can feel every aroused huff of his breath in the sensitive gaps between your plating. His movements are even sloppier this time, his mouth loose around your shaft as he sighs and gasps at the way he manipulates his own body. He sinks down a little too far on you, perhaps pushes himself too far too fast, and he whimpers, the sound utterly appealing to you. He’s already beginning to fall apart.

Eventually, he takes his mouth away from the tip of your shaft, instead pressing sloppy open-mouthed kisses to the base and laving you with spittle as he uses his hands on himself. “Please, I need,” he pants desperately, “I want, please…”

You stub out your cigarette, light a third. “Show me you’re ready.”

While you start your cigarette, Dave moves up your body again, repositioning himself to where he was before, except instead of trying to sink down on you he plants a hand behind himself so he’s leaning back. This way, you can see his hand between his legs, three fingers spread in his hole coated with oil, and every movement of his hand draws out a wet sticky sound. “Please let me.” His voice is hoarse with raw need.

“Sir,” you correct him. He’ll learn eventually. “Spread yourself.”

You know he doesn’t want to take his fingers away, but you can almost see the gears working in his head as he tries to figure out how to position himself and hold himself open for your inspection at the same time. Eventually, he uses his hand to pull his cheek to the side, showing you how ready he is. “Please, sir…”

You’ll be the judge of that. Without warning, you use three fingers to penetrate him. He yells, clamping down against the intrusion, but he takes them easily enough, coating your fingers with oil as you crook your fingertips forward and make him scream while you draw him back into position over the tip of your shaft. “Now you may begin,” you tell him, withdrawing your fingers only to wipe them off on his skin. You refuse to deliberately make your sheets so filthy.

This time, it goes a little easier. Dave sinks down, slowly but surely, a satisfied noise welling up in his chest as he takes more and more of your shaft. It’s not effortless, though, and you can tell there’s still some residual pain for him from the way his eyebrows crease. Overall, though, he’s panting and trembling and still trying to bear down on you, still trying to seat himself with his hips nestled against yours.

His face is fascinating to watch as he does this. One moment he’ll be biting his lip, the next his eyes will be fluttering shut and he’ll be almost smiling as he starts up a constant mantra of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” A few strands of his pale hair are streaking across his forehead, stuck there with sex-sweat. The noises he makes are also intriguing to you. While you’re sure there’s still a large amount of discomfort for him, the sounds he makes are all of pleasure, some of frustration that he can’t go as fast as he wants. His thighs around your hips tremble with the effort of balancing his intentions, sinking down fast enough to take you but slow enough that he doesn’t hurt himself; his fingers clench hard at your shoulders, his grip ever-tighter as he takes more and more of you, and though he probably believes he’s harming you you’re finally able to really feel his touch.

Once he sinks down all the way, taking you to the hilt, he chokes out a sigh—of relief or of frustration? He must still be feeling some discomfort, but overall, his expression is one of bliss, his mouth lolling open, his eyes half-closed, panting hard. “How does it feel?” you ask him.

“Fucking amazing,” he sighs. “Fantastic.”

“No,” you tell him. You ash your cigarette carelessly over his skin; he trembles when the hot residue sears him, leaving behind an angry pink welt. “How does it feel?” The point is to make him start babbling again, vocalize the sensations he wanted so badly.

“Fuck,” Dave says shakily. “I can feel fucking—fuck…” Normally he isn’t exceptionally eloquent, but this is a downgrade in his verbal skills. He’s already losing control. “Every single ridge—I’m so full, feels like you’re fucking my throat, like you’re splitting me in half, fuck…” He breathes, quick and frantic, trying to put his thoughts together.

“I imagine that will only get more intense when you start to move,” you mention off-handedly.

A desperate sound wells in his throat. “I can’t, I’m still trying to—“

You bring up your hand to lay it heavy across the base of his throat. You can’t actually choke him like this, crush his larynx in your grip and squeeze the breath out of him, but the weight of it is enough to threaten, and you can feel his pulse struggling under your fingertips it’s thudding so hard. “Move.”

To your surprise, he does the opposite. The pressure around your shaft intensifies to a level you thought impossible, and you’re finally able to feel, really feel, what being inside him is supposed to be like. Dave lets out a little sob-laugh as sensation ripples through his body and constricts you within him, but to stave off the inevitable, he closes his thumb and forefinger in a tight loop around the base of his own shaft. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck,” he whispers while it washes over him.

You give him only a few seconds to compose himself before you deliberately shift beneath him, rolling to the side so you can stub out your cigarette. From the plaintive cry he lets out, he can feel every movement inside him. You light a fourth Djarum, then roll back into place, returning your attention to him once you stop teasing him with your movements. “Move,” you order him again.

“Oh.” Dave grips your shoulders harder, raises himself up on you using the muscles in his arms—the cords in his biceps and triceps articulate so finely under his skin—and you can see that your entire shaft is coated with oil. When he sinks down again, an elongated vowel sound comes out of his throat. “Shhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

He’s still going far too slowly. You want to see him fall apart, and he’s being far too cautious right now. “Faster,” you hiss, blowing smoke in his face from between your teeth.

A helpless moan comes from his throat, and you savor it like you savor this cigarette. His movements speed up, a little, then a little more, and though he still moves shallowly on you, he’s still hastening as much as he can. “Oh fuck,” comes out of his mouth, “oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” only escalating in volume as he gets used to how it feels to ride you.

He works up to rocking himself on you, not so much changing depth as pressure, but this isn’t what you want from him. “Harder,” you tell him.

“Oh, fuck no, I can’t, don’t make me,” falls out of his mouth frantically. “Sir,” he tacks on as an afterthought, then “please,” as if that will make a difference.

“You can. You will. You must.”

This is the point at which you break him. He begins to sob outright, ragged gasps of breath catching in his throat, and while you can acknowledge that he is more than likely still experiencing some pain, you know that the tears aren’t from discomfort. No, this comes from the sheer expanse of the physical sensations racking his bones. He is absolutely wrecking himself on you, and it gives you an obscene amount of delight to watch him fall apart on your shaft like this. He works up to actually riding you with an absurd amount of vigor and glee, slamming himself down over and over and over, a little choked moan rising from his throat every time. He’s out of words at this point, so absorbed in the physical that he doesn’t seem to understand what to do with his eyes or his breathing.

For you, it’s a pleasure to watch his body work, and you chain-smoke your way through this, thoroughly enjoying the pure hedonism of these acts. Each breath makes his shoulders rise and fall, the hollow of his collarbones exaggerated, and his chest heaves with every pant. You could swear that his stomach swells just the slightest bit every time he fully seats himself on you. His throat constantly works in a moan or a swallow. When he looks at you, his pupils are lust-blown and his eyes half-shut, but more often than not, he has to wrench his eyes shut to keep all the sensations from becoming too overwhelming. His mouth hangs open as he pants, emphasizing how swollen his lips are. A sheen of perspiration clings to his skin from the effort of keeping it all together, beads of sweat running from his forehead down his neck to cross his chest, and he still can’t keep it together even with so much effort, and that’s the best part of this for you—that Dave’s losing control.

Several times, Dave has to stop because he clenches too insistently around you. Every time that happens, he clamps his hand a little tighter around his shaft, face screwed up in intense concentration. It takes you a little while to realize that he’s trying to hold off on an orgasm when that happens, but as you’ve kept track, this is the eighth time it’s happened so far. And yet he continues to slam himself down and bring himself back off, riding you as hard as he can—is this not enough for him? Or does he need to feel like he needs to ride everything out now, because this will never happen again? “What are you waiting for?” you ask him.

“You, sir,” he barely has the energy to pant out, riding you as fast as he can.

Ah—he’s been holding off so that you might orgasm as well. “Don’t.” It’s the most eloquent way you can find in this moment to tell her not to wait for an act impossible for your physiology.

That one word seems to let loose everything Dave was holding back. He draws himself on and off of you with reckless abandon, practically screaming every time he hits a certain angle, and yet he still doesn’t seem satisfied. But then he lets out an obscenely loud and long cry of “fuuuuuuuuuuck!” while he holds you inside and moves in ripples around you. Tears squeeze out of his eyes as thick jets of cum shoot from his shaft and coat your shell, a climax that leaves him shivering with intensity and trembling too hard to attempt to pull off of you just yet. “Droog,” he croons, long and low, as he throws his head back, a shy, blissful smile blooming on his face as he continues to orgasm.

This one you can feel better than the others. He constricts you insistently, impossibly tight and hot, and it seeps into the spaces between your plating to show you what it might be like for another species with a less weaponized body. The sensation is still deadened, but if every orgasm you wrench from him can manipulate your body like this, you’re sure you could learn to interpret this as sexual. For now, it’s enough for you to watch him try to regain his cool, a small amount of spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he pants and tries to collect himself.

Even though the sensation has mostly subsided, Dave still holds you inside himself. “Off,” you tell him. From the trembling in his arms and legs, he has to be exhausted, and yet you’re not about to help him through this. This is exactly what he asked for, and it’s no fault of yours that he has no plans for what happens afterwards. As he rises, he cries out just a little as each of your ridges leaves him, stressing his body with the flare of it before he gets some relief and then sobbing again as another comes to take his place. He’s made you absolutely filthy, and both of your thighs are covered with sticky-slippery oil.

Once you fall out of him, you can already feel yourself flagging. This will be hell to clean if your anatomy traps his fluids under your plating—you might even have to take one of those abhorrent showers instead of washing yourself with oil and polishing your shell. “Clean up your mess,” you order him.

Of course, he interprets this in the best way possible. He uses his mouth once again to suck up what he left on your plating, throat working in a swallow as he takes all of his own fluids back. Using his mouth means keeping you erect for long enough that he can run his piercing over every inch of stained shell, eating his own release and degrading himself even further for you.

Though you could let him keep going, you’re as cleansed as you’ll ever be from a tongue bath. “Stop.” He doesn’t want to, and for a moment, you swear he won’t listen, but he holds himself back from mouthing at you, nearly shaking with the effort it takes to restrain himself. “Good,” you tell him, and he seems to sigh in relief, losing an invisible tension in his shoulders. “Good boy. Come here.”

You rest your arm on the headboard, giving Dave a clear invitation to nestle into your side, and she curls into you willingly, boneless and satiated. With your free hand, you run your fingers through his hair, but it’s mostly absent-mindedly, as you’re too concerned with finishing this cigarette and processing things on your end to help him pull himself back together. After his breathing evens out, his voice comes back, hoarse and hesitant. “Sir?”

“Droog,” you correct him. The moment has passed. That one word shows a clear delineation between this stretch of time and what just occurred.

“Droog,” he repeats after you. You enjoy the way he says your name, the way his mouth moves as he holds it on his tongue. “Was that, I mean…?”

He wants to ask you how it felt for you, but doesn’t have the words and feels he doesn’t have permission. Explaining it to him would be too complicated, but it endears him to you that he wants to do well for you. You feel your face twist into a smile, carapace fangs showing, and you stub out this last cigarette—in the ashtray, rather than on his skin, as you feel a strange desire to do. “Next time,” you tell him, voice low and dangerous, “if you are very good, I will lay you down and drive into you so hard you forget your own name.

“Fuck,” he whispers, a shiver running down his spine. “Next time?”

“I doubt you’ll be able to control yourself.” It’s an indirect affirmation and a sly insult all in one, and yet you enjoy this about him. Such an eager little thing.

He lazily drapes himself across your chest, not seeming to care that he could be suffocating you. An obnoxious smile spreads across his face as his eyes fall closed. “Next time,” he repeats. “Shit, I am gonna be so good, you don’t even fucking know…”

“You always are.” And as he falls asleep on you, utterly exhausted, you take the newspaper from the side table and turn to E3 to read the reviews for his latest film.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> princeofriot.tumblr said: One weekend he made you shower with his things, wear his clothes and sleep in his bed so you'd utterly smell wrecked and like him when you got to work on Monday. Everyone questioned you when you starting smoking and smelling like mint, but it was worth it when he fucked you that night.

You have no idea where he’s going with this.

None of your things are in the shower. Instead, he’s only left his own. You don’t seem to have much of a choice—you wash with his soap, lather with his shampoo, and you step out smelling of mint and lemongrass. Cool and refined. Him, not you. You smell like him.

It only gets worse when you look into your closet. None of your clothes are here. He has, however, left you a suit on your bed—your favorite, one of his, that you try to save for premieres but only wear when you need that extra burst of confidence. When you step into it, it feels like a second skin. You’re wearing him, cutting a sharp figure, but it just reminds you who you belong to.

Beneath the bitterness of soap, the scent of sex clings to your skin. He has to know. Letting you sleep in his bed all weekend wasn’t a concession of a need of companionship, it was to make him radiate through your pores. The grit of cigarettes lingers behind your teeth, ash in your hair. When you bring your hand up to your throat, you swear you can still feel the stickiness from where he insisted on licking you. He grooms you almost like a cat might groom a kitten—only appropriate, since you wore your collar and tail all weekend for him.

As much as you enjoy being his little pet, it’s supposed to stop once you exit the door of your penthouse. But now, you can feel his presence as an aura around you. All day, you feel like he’s standing right behind you, until you remind yourself that he purposefully made you smell of him in order to feel haunted by his revenant. Through morning meetings with your producers and an emergency appointment with a costume designer, you feel a stranger in your own skin.

In the middle of the day, it starts to be too much. You spend your lunch break furtively fisting your cock in the bathroom attached to your corner office, and still the aroma doesn’t dissipate. Still he possesses you. Still he clings to you. It’s only Monday. If he makes you do this for the whole week, you are thoroughly hosed. One day was bad enough—can’t focus, can’t think, not with him so close and yet so far, not with the control he’s exerting over your consciousness.

He’s just sitting there, in his favorite armchair in the bedroom, smoking and reading the paper when you get back from work. Heedless of the fact that it’s his suit jacket and not yours, you throw it off, letting it land rumpled on a barstool before you roll up your shirtsleeves and start your offensive. Doesn’t matter that he’s reading the paper—you shove it aside so you can sit in Droog’s lap, straddling his thighs and cradling his face in your hot hands. “You have no fucking idea,” you tell him, your voice breathy and frantic, “how much torture you put me through today.”

“To the contrary.” He ashes his cigarette, stubs it out, lays his paper aside. His hands come around to frame your waist, hard carapace digits slipping into the gaps between your ribs and threatening to crush the breath out of you before they slip down, down, to cup around your asscheeks. “I knew exactly what it would do to you, to have my scent permeate your every breath and yet to be deprived of the only thing you need with all your being.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter lovingly against his mouth before you open your mouth and bite.

You’re rewarded with a satisfying crunch of his plating between your teeth as you close down with all the force your jaw can muster, but then Droog effortlessly shoves you away. “Strip me,” he orders you, and the tone of his voice, deep and dark with hints of promises and threats, makes your eyes roll back in your head and starts to get you hard. He hasn’t even fucking done anything and he’s still making you come undone. “Tell me how much you need me.”

A not-laugh rasps out of your throat while you hook your hand in his tie and yank, pin his wrists to the arms of the chair and throw his cufflinks to the floor. Fuck propriety. You need him and you need him now, so blindly that you’re not sure you can put it to words. “You marked me,” you whisper against his plating, savagely biting his neck as hard as you can while you work on the rest of his shirt. “You did it on purpose, so I’d smell like you. So I’d know who I belong to.”

“Good, Dave, very good,” he purrs at you, and honestly you couldn’t give a single gold-plated shit whether he’s insulting you for being addicted to him or praising you for your deductive reasoning. Or perhaps he’s merely pleased with how badly your hands are shaking as you roughly open his shirt and shove it down his shoulders. When you bite at his neck again, a soft chittering sound lingers in his throat.

Good. You’re getting to him, as much as he’s getting to you. “Couldn’t just keep me in your bed all weekend,” you needle him, acutely aware of the trouble you’re getting yourself into and how badly he can make you hurt if you truly displease him. “Had to show everyone else you own me. All day, everyone’s like, when did you start smoking? When did you start chewing gum? And I can’t tell them, I can’t let them know, but every single fucking time they mention it I know, I know it’s you, I know they’re smelling you on me, you marked me…”

“In a way only I can tell,” he murmurs against your ear. As your hands pull at his cuffs to get his shirt fully off, his tongue snakes out of his mouth, long and slick and prehensile, and curls around your ear. No, fuck him, fuck him, he traces a line down your neck, on the sensitive pulse of your throat, and you fucking mewl like a desperate little kitten as you start to work on his belt. “You even taste like me.” His growl is low and possessive.

That does it. You need in his pants. Right now. Right this second, before you explode. When you bite down on the plating joining neck to shoulder, Droog buzzes under you like a particularly pissed-off cicada—which only means that he’s just as worked up about this as you are. Yes, his trousers are already tented with his fucking WMD of a cock, and you swear if he strains the fabric any harder his dick is actually going to rip free so he can fuck you. “So let’s see what you taste like,” you say breathlessly. You know your look up at him has to look wild-eyed and desperate, but still, you sink off his body and down on your knees so you can pull his pants off at his ankles.

It leaves you eye to eye with a plated erection so large it can hardly be real. Still, Droog is already half-hard—and you know why. When you bite at him like that, crack his plating, it’s the only way he can feel you. He’s told you before to go even harder, until something inky oozes into your mouth and drips down your chin, and still it only turns him on, the fucking masochist. It used to be he couldn’t even do that himself, until you figured out what made him tick—so to speak. Right now, though, you don’t plan on talking for a while, shutting yourself up with a dick pacifier. When you start to lick him with the flat of your tongue, you make sure to get the ball of your tongue piercing under every intimidating ridge. “Good,” Droog says again, as if that’s the only word in his head as he looks down at you critically.

Fuck his criticism. You’re a pro at sucking dick, especially his. When you take the tip of his cock into your mouth—nearly pointed, with the same flare around the corona as the other nine ridges of his dick—you suck, hard, harder than any human could withstand. It only makes Droog close his eyes. So now you don’t have the solace of his white-on-white-on-white egging you on, but it means you’re finally getting to him. Your mouth sinks down a little lower, and you threaten him with the edge of your teeth in the little bit of softness engorged between the ridges of his plating.

“Good,” and it’s turning into a mantra, a sigh. His hand comes up to rest on the top of your head, threading through your hair—and yet not forcing you to move. Though he’s never told you as much, you know he’s fascinated with you, as a soft little fragile human. The phenomenon of hair is largely beyond him, the fact of skin perplexing to his sensibilities, and you’re sure that’s what keeps him so magnetically attracted to you, this fascination with your body.

God, and you haven’t even gotten your own clothes yet but you’re worshipping his dick like you were born to do it. Your own tie comes off, your shirt shucked to the floor, and you can barely get your trousers down to your thighs before you’re palming at your hard-on through your silk boxers. Good lord of fuck you are far too turned on right now just from having his cock fill your mouth. You just hope he doesn’t hear the moan that wells in your throat as you kick off your clothes and start to really touch yourself like you mean it, hand wrapping around your dick to move your three-rung ladder against the swollen flesh beneath.

“Stop,” Droog mutters down to you. At first you just stop the movements of your mouth on him, but when he tightens his fingers in your hair and pulls, you realize he means jacking yourself off. Fine. If he wants it that way, you’ll focus on him. With an inch and a half of his destroyer of worlds in your mouth, you bite down on that second piece of plating, first gently, then like you want to crush his dick in your mouth, bite it off and chew and swallow. So fucking wrong, but Droog loves this shit, listen to him, he makes a sound like metal on metal, like squealing tires in a parking lot, and you know it’s all he can do not to fist his hand harder in your hair and shove his cock down your trachea and send you to the fucking hospital. “Yes,” he hisses savagely at you.

Fuck. You need him. You need him so badly it’s like every cell in your body is thrumming with it. You already feel empty, needing him to fill, to take, and you know it’s gonna take more than just your spit to lube yourself up for this monster. Blindly you reach out, find the side table, grab a handle, all the while never stopping your teeth massage of the swollen flesh beneath Droog’s plating. There. Yes. Good. Lube. You take it quickly, almost flipping the table when you try to extricate your wrist from the drawer, but then you’re dribbling it onto your fingertips and spreading your legs and moaning around Droog’s dick as you ease a finger in, then straight to two.

“You are always so desperate for me,” he says quietly, his voice ringing with approval. God, you need that, you need him purring at you that you’re his good little kitty, and once you’re sure you won’t hurt yourself you start taking three fingers, pumping, twisting, scissoring, opening, because you need his dick. You need it so bad. He knows it and you know it and you need to know who you belong to, you need him to hold you down and keep you safe and permeate your pores and mark you like your tattoos and go through your skin like your piercings. “Up.”

You don’t question him. You’re never ready for him, not truly, but this is the best you can do. You climb into his lap, straddling his thighs, and his hands come down to curl possessively around your hips as he guides your entrance down to the tip of his cock. Gravity does its work, your greedy hole welcoming him inside, and you’re already stretched around him and willing to be stretched more. “Fuck you feel so fucking good like this,” you babble senselessly. “Fuck yes fuck me open fuck feels like you’re gonna fuck me into pieces fuck fuck Droog fuck…”

You’ve only taken three ridges. It’ll only get harder from here. You sink, take a fourth, hiss as the ridge stresses your entrance, sigh when it breaches, and yet you only sink further. Fifth. “You and your filthy mouth,” Droog mutters appreciatively. All the same, he shoves two fingers into your mouth. He loves the feel of it on his fingertips, hot and slick and pliant, and so you work your tongue around the intrusion, making sure to crunch down as much as you can while you try to take all of him. “Talk to me,” he orders you, taking the soothing feel of his hand away from your mouth and instead trailing your own spittle down your neck.

“Fuck ‘m so full,” you moan. You sound like a ten-dollar whore like this and you don’t care. You honestly cannot find a single iota of a fuck to give that isn’t already given over to fucking yourself on Droog. “Love it when you fuck me like this, need you, want you to hold me down fuck” as another ridge slips in, “fuck fuck fuck” as a mantra as you get used to it, “god you’re just so fucking huge, never anybody else, couldn’t ever get this from anybody else, fuck!”

“You are mine,” Droog reiterates for possibly the zillionth time. And yet he still stays perfectly still, letting you sink down on him, not yet deigning to move before you give yourself over completely. “Mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you repeat mindlessly. “Yours yours yours oh fuck Droog.” Your stupid short blunt human nails scrabble ineffectually down his chest as you try to scratch him, show him how good it is. Not working, can’t get through his stupid goddamn shell unless you try to wreck him as much as he’s wrecking you, and so instead you act like you’re trying to pull his arms out and crush the sockets of his shoulders in your grip. “Fuck fuck just like that,” nearly there, you can tell, with every single millimeter something of his brushes up against your prostate and you feel like you’re going to die with the sensation, “just like that oh fuck oh fuck oh!” To choke down the sounds, you bite down onto Droog’s neck, so hard you can actually hear his plating cracking.

He makes a sound like a car crash and you have never been more turned on in your life. One hand moves from merely your hip to slip down and grasp your ass, fingertip dangerously close to feeling out where his cock is splitting you open. The threat of extra sensation has a surge going through your body, heat along your skin and ending as a coiling dread in the pit of your stomach, another drop of pre dripping from the dark red head of your dick. You actually scream when his other fingertip comes to touch, not you, but your Prince Albert, moving it just a scintilla at a time and getting you to leak more stickiness onto him.

There’s nothing more to take. You’re flush with his thighs, hips against his hips, no need to hold yourself up. Still, when you try to relax, it changes the pressure in you, ratcheting it even higher. “Can you feel that?” you moan against him, never stopping your mauling of his plating. Hot and tight and clinging to him and seeping into the space between his plating, the only soft spot on his body besides his tongue, which is currently tracing your pulse from collarbone to jaw and down and up and down and dizzying you with its path. “Fuck oh fuck oh fuck Droog. Droog,” you repeat, trying to beg him in the few words you remember to just fucking touch you already.

His hand instead dawdles over the other piercings in your dick. He’s fascinated by this, too, fascinated that you can pierce yourself and tattoo yourself. He can’t. His body is too harsh, designed for a martial life and not for aesthetic decorations. But he looks beautiful under you as you move your mouth an inch and bite down again, rewarded with a second crunch. His plating is starting to look like a windshield after a hailstorm, white circles with little jagged lines showing where your teeth were. “You pathetic little creature,” he murmurs back at you, barely moving his hips under you and teasing your entrance as one ridge moves back and forth across it. “My little pet.”

“Yours,” you say again. “Yours oh holy shit!” This part, this part is always difficult, the part where you start moving on that thickness and fullness and it’s like the most exquisite sex toy in the entire world attached to someone who pampers you without end and puts up with you patiently and genuinely enjoys how desperate you are for his cock. His cock slips from you ridge by ridge, and then you sink down again, filthy language a constant under your breath. “You love it, don’t you,” you mutter, drawing yourself off and then back on again—it gets easier but never effortless, he makes you work for it, makes you prove yourself worthy. “Love marking me any way you can, love it when other people know-don’t-know, need them to know I’m yours, fuck fuck fuck!”

“Mine,” he growls possessively, driving his hips up into you when you linger on your knees for too long. You keen at that, throwing your head back and showing your throat, and Droog runs his prehensile tongue over your Adam’s apple, slithering like a slick, hot snake across your skin and making you shiver from the base of your skull to the tail of your spine. “Mine, my little whore, my little exhibitionist.”

You won’t be able to sit right for a month. You don’t care, as long as every ridge of Droog’s slides against your prostate like that on every thrust, blinds you with something white-hot and desperate that leaves you clinging to his shell like it’s your hold on reality. “Yours yours yours, oh fuck, oh my fucking fuck, you’re just—“ god your babble when you’re like this is so utterly stupid it’s a wonder he can even stand to fuck you, “inside me and coming through me and it’s like you are, like you really are me…”

“I possess you,” he says low against your skin. “I own you.” And it’s a comfort to know who you belong to, to know that he’s going to give you gravity when you feel like you’re floating away, that he’s going to give you an anchor when you’re sailing on the waves of time. “Mine.” His fingers, cool and hard and slim, circle around your wrists like bone handcuffs, and when he massages little circles into the insides against your pulse point with the pads of his thumbs you feel like you’re going to cum without him even needing to touch you. He can see the pulse in your cock, feel the desperation as you fight off your peak. “So soon?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter. Dumb choice of words. He starts smoothly thrusting into you, not just teasing you with a few motions of his hips but really moving, moving like he’s always known what to do. It’s easy—you don’t give him much room, anywhere else to go, but you still know he’s unpracticed. Doesn’t matter. His dick is saintly. The size of the boat way more than makes up for the calm seas you’re sailing. The world for you has pretty much narrowed itself down to the limits of your body and every place you’re connected to him. You’re so stretched and filled and fuck if you don’t want to feel like this forever, if you don’t just want to stay here and wreck yourself on him while he holds you down. “Droog oh fuck oh my fuck just I need fuck me fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck!”

“I can feel,” he growls against you, and that’s the sound of a feral animal that wants to rip you apart and get under your skin, “every single pulse of yours against my shaft. I can feel you falling apart on me. Don’t,” he threatens you, and you know it’s because your dick twitched again. You’ve leaked so much pre that it’s seeped onto his stomach and slithered down and started gathering in a puddle of cold dickdrool under your balls and something so disgusting has never turned you on quite so much. He takes one hand away from your wrist, makes a circle with thumb and forefinger, and slides it down your cock until he clamps it around the base as an unyielding cock ring.

“Fuck oh fuck don’t,” you say right back to him. You’re losing your fucking mind right now. Every part of you is him, from the scent of tobacco still nestled in your hair to the aroma of mint lingering on your skin to the memory of his suit clinging to your form to his body around you, under you, inside you. “Please please I need I have to I gotta—“

“No,” he says, and you start fucking sobbing, it’s such a delicious agony. You are so close and he knows it and he’s just fucking torturing you now. “Bite. Hard. And I will show you what it means to truly belong to me. For me to truly possess you.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Even though he has your cock in a chokehold,  you feel like you could cum right now, because—oh god he means what he says. You can feel the pulse in his shaft, the shiver under his plating, the heat threatening to sear your hands as you hold on for dear life and ride him like you mean it. You attack his shoulder, diving in with your teeth, and your canines, your stupid blunt human canines, might actually puncture his plating, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking matter because you can feel his dick throbbing in you, a heavy sort of threat, and

he surges in you and buries himself and something more than lube and spit slicks you and you have never felt more dirty and degraded in your life

when he lets go of your dick you cum almost instantly with the mere knowledge that he just came inside you and marked you and made you his

the growl in your ear is a constant mantra of ‘mine’ and the only word in your head is ‘yours’

you know who you belong to and it’s him it’s only him it’s always been him.

You struggle to remember to breathe, fingers flexing, toes uncurling, as the tingling spreads from the top of your skull to the soles of your feet. Droog holds you up and starts to slip out, slowly, carefully, and you can feel his swill, his inky-black cum, shifting in you even as he leaves your body.  Fuck, fuck, and even when he pulls out entirely he presses his fingertip against your hole and doesn’t allow any of it to leave he wants that darkness to stay inside you and possess you and tattoo you from the inside out and you spurt out a second pathetic attempt at an orgasm at the realization that you’ve been so fucking violated and you love it so fucking much.

“Good,” he tells you, “good boy, hold it,” and when he fully pulls away from you there’s one last drop of his cum, thick like jizz but black as hell, clinging to one of the ridges of his cock. You suppress the overwhelming desire to lean forward and lick it away—only because when you shift, you can still feel that inky cum inside you, holy shit, you can feel it, you can actually feel how filthy you are.

Please, you beg, and it’s not until a few heavy, struggling heartbeats later that you realize you’re whispering it, “please, please,” you just want him to fingerfuck you open and make you cum again and give him everything as he digs the cruel points of his carapace fingers into your prostate and his cum drips out of you.

You could never be so lucky. Of all the accoutrements on that side table he could reach for, the first thing that comes to his hand is your tail—your little kitten tail, soft and plush, attached to your favorite plug. Oh god. Oh fucking hell he’s going to plug his cum in you and force you to feel it oh god. Oh god and his long slick prehensile tongue curls around the flare of the plug and you can see his saliva glistening around it and you swear to god he’s edging you with only this even before he gets it between your legs and drags it against your taint and presses it against your hole and insists, “Open.”

Oh, you do. Oh fuck do you open. His weird-ass alien saliva has some sort of painkiller in it, and the remnants of it on the plug soothe the residual chafe and burn that he left with his cock. Oh, and it’s heavy and it stretches and when Droog pulls you close and circles his arm around you and calls you his little whore you shiver in his arms as the plug digs into your prostate and you casually die to yourself as you cum dry, just from this, just from him.

“Good.” It’s soothing and he knows it. His hand comes down to pet heavy along your spine. You’re shaking, hard, about to drop, but he’s here. He’s solid, something to cling to, and he lets you. He lets you cling and calls you good and kitten and though you’re fully awake your mind drifts somewhere soft and pleasant as you lose yourself to the sensation of his digits over your skin.

You think you’ll use his shampoo from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> Contains most of my headcanons.
> 
> Carapaces: cloning process means no sexual reproduction means no sex drive, genitalia have not yet evolved away, plating is resilient so only the most intense sensations make it through, unaware that other species reproduce sexually and might interpret his behaviors as mating signs, etc.
> 
> Droog: doesn't get aroused by sex so much as ordering around and being in control and power play aspects, also has a cock that could end worlds but no real desire to use it on anyone, possessive, controlling, utterly dominating.
> 
> Dave: needs an older male figure in his life now that his brother's gone, many body modifications, movie producer, absolutely no shame and unafraid to get what he wants, size queen, cannot shut up during sex or in general to save his life.


End file.
